


utmost admiration and respect

by pelides, smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 19th Century Europe, Canon Era, Developing Friendships, Feuilly Week, Fully-clothed Figure Drawing, Gen, Illustrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelides/pseuds/pelides, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Early in 1826, Enjolras visits Feuilly, a newly-made friend, to act as a drawing model.





	1. utmost admiration and respect (by smithens)

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in progress for TOO LONG. But it's Feuilly Week so I wanted to put it up. :)

_ January, 1826 _

Enjolras notices the features of the little apartment before anything else.

Pinned to the walls of Feuilly's room are articles in various languages - Italian and Greek he recognizes, but some of the others are unfamiliar - all seemingly unorganized, and variously sized sheets of  paper bearing sketches and paintings. There are books scattered around the room, too, one on the bed and several on the desk as well as crowding the shelves, though the floor is bare and everything else is in its rightful place, tucked away. Enjolras is enamored with looking around.  His own flat is clean, spartan, with nothing to decorate the walls, and books remaining on the shelves unless they are being read. It is a place to sleep, and to harbor those who need it, but his true home is not in his flat but with his companions. He has spent nights with Combeferre, whose small flat is a disorganized whirlwind of intellectual paraphernalia, and with Courfeyrac, whose rooms are evidence of its occupant’s libertine-like habits and dandy-like sense of fashion but pristine. Feuilly's flat falls somewhere between the two. It is refreshing, Enjolras finds, to visit a man whose room has personality as well as space on the floor. 

"Thank you for coming," Feuilly says, following Enjolras's gaze with his own, and if he looks a bit embarrassed, Enjolras acts as though he does not notice. 

"It is not an immense favor," Enjolras replies. He points to a stained flier above the bed, then broadens his gesture around the room. "You've quite the collection."

Feully rubs at the back of his neck with his hand and quietly clears his throat. "Most of them came from an old friend," he says, "as gifts. I have found some on my own time, as well, though it does not make an easy hobby, this sort of collection." His laugh is quiet and sheepish, but warm. Enjolras finds it a friendly, welcoming laugh, and offers an encouraging smile in return. Feuilly continues. "what I intend to say is - I've limited knowledge of Italian, and I've found that Greek and Polish are more difficult to study than I had anticipated. Otherwise, I have tried to read some with the assistance of - of dictionaries, although those, too, are lacking."  Feuilly steps closer to the bed, and to the space on the wall above it, and looks up.  The paper he reaches up to touch appears to Enjolras to be some sort of notice article, perhaps seditious in nature -  the look of the words on the page, at least, is familiar. "A call to arms, for the 1794 uprising in Warsaw -  _ insurekcja kościuszkowska _ ." 

The syllables of the foreign tongue in Feuilly's voice are halting and slow. Enjolras has no basis for comparison and thus cannot discern if the words are pronounced correctly, but it is pleasing to know that his suspicion was correct. "I recently became interested in the subject," Feuilly continues, a faint and bashful smile at his lips.

Enjolras nods. It is admirable, Feuilly's worldly understanding. Bahorel had told him of Feuilly's political interest months ago; for Enjolras to now see the real manifestation of it is humbling. Though they stand mute - Feuilly's brow furrowed slightly in concentration, Enjolras with his gaze focused at Feuilly's profile - the silence is not uncomfortable. Yet, when Enjolras speaks, it is with the feeling that he is interrupting. 

"I am afraid I must confess that my knowledge of Europe's history as a whole still pales in comparison to my knowledge of the history of France." 

Feuilly does not respond immediately, engrossed in tracing over the type of the page with his fingers. He briefly turns to look at Enjolras, then to the floor.  "We ought to change that," he says, finally, and it is hard to tell what the nature of his expression is.

Abruptly:  "Well, shall we begin?"

It’s a sudden change of subject, Enjolras thinks, but they do have a purpose here, after all. Feuilly crosses the room to pull a stool from beneath the desk - which harbors not only books, but also what appears to be a woman's fan, unfolded and plain. 

"I'd like to start in profile." 

He says it so that it sounds in between a question and a statement, the words lingering. With a short nod, Enjolras sits at Feuilly's gesture upon the stool. 

Feuilly surveys him carefully, makes a small humming noise. There is a prolonged pause. Enjolras spends it by peeking surreptitiously at the titles of the works on the bookshelf.

"Your hair," Feuilly says finally, "and the collar. I shan't ask you to remove anything, of course, but perhaps if you -" 

He stops speaking as suddenly as he began. Without a word, Enjolras tucks the stray locks of hair behind his ear, loosens his already clumsily-tied cravat, and straightens his posture. 

"Better," Feuilly says, leaving his other thought unfinished. He turns to sit on the bed, holding a sketching book in his hands. "Tell me, please, if you begin to feel uncomfortable. Ah, how long do you believe you can stay still?" 

Deliberating, Enjolras nearly turns to look at Feuilly. He stops himself at the last moment. "So long as you need me to. I will be sure to alert you if I begin to feel stiff in the neck."  He means his words as a jest, but neither of them smile.

They became friends only recently, after all.

"Please do," Feuilly says, and a moment later Enjolras hears the scratch of charcoal against parchment. 

As he sits, Enjolras thinks. He had volunteered for this exercise more out of eagerness to understand Feuilly better - as a new friend, as a comrade, a fellow man - than any need to have his visage sketched onto paper.  Feuilly had mentioned need for a model in passing; "to study the countenance," he had said, and had seemed taken-aback upon Enjolras's offer to provide. Courfeyrac, who at the time had been sitting across from them, had jested that Enjolras did not truly have the countenance of an ordinary man "due to his comeliness" - and though Enjolras at another time would have sharply retaliated, he had had no intention for such a trivial verbal spar whilst in a new acquaintance's presence. He had deigned, however, to meet Courfeyrac's eyes and glower.

(Courfeyrac's response to such a black look was to turn his own gaze into his coffee.)

Yet, Feuilly had accepted Enjolras's proposal, and before they two left the café that evening they had a set time and day for the event.

And so Enjolras has anticipated this occasion since that evening, but now, having sat unmoving before Feuilly for several moments now, he finds himself wondering - _was Feuilly so eager as I?_ It hadn't seemed so. Feuilly had _seemed_ sheepish when opening the door, had _seemed_ as though he'd like to get the day over with. 

(This was in great contrast to their moments of planning. His eyes, though tired then, had crinkled at the corners as he smiled, and he had spoken firmly when they had come to a decision as to when would we best. "I shall see you again within the fortnight, then, Enjolras," he had said, and shortly after they had shaken hands before parting. Enjolras is not one to give bisous.)

Today, Feuilly is not so enthused as he was then, and the cause of the change is not so obvious as Enjolras wishes. 

Ever since their first meeting, Enjolras has viewed Feuilly as somewhat of an enigma. 

A man for whom he has developed utmost admiration and respect, undoubtedly, and Enjolras knows that Feuilly - although young, he had been told - deserves it…. But an enigma, nonetheless. There is a contrast between them. 

Their first evening together was in December, in a crowded café. Outside it had been snowing.

Earlier in the night, Bahorel had pointed him out in a group of workingmen, pronounced that he in particular would be interested in  _ republican association _ . Enjolras hadn’t realised precisely who Bahorel was speaking of until he had led them both near the fire, and then introduced them by saying, boldly, that Feuilly could talk of Piedmont and Peloponnesus in the way that Enjolras could of Paris and Marseille. 

And then they did, for hours, and with great enthusiasm. The exchange of philosophy was a wholly welcome one, and Enjolras had made great efforts to express his interest in Feuilly’s thoughts.  Of course, Feuilly had work to do the next day, and so when they parted ways at the end of the night it was without a plan to meet again. Coincidence, luckily, allowed them to spend more time together.

After some weeks of occasionally crossing paths, they became better acquainted, better known to one another. 

For that, Enjolras is grateful. 

In some ways, little has changed since that evening several months ago; the core of their connection - their passion for the people - remains the same. Yet, he does not wish for stagnancy.

He sits still, contemplating. The light sound of Feuilly’s charcoal against paper is rhythmic, calming. Feuilly says nothing, but out of the corner of his eye Enjolras can see him look up every moment or so, squint a little, and then return to the drawing.

Time passes. 

Enjolras thinks of Greece, of the Two Sicilies, of Poland and Lithuania. The wall before him seems to have ephemera from each place, or at least in resembling languages. He wonders where Feuilly has been: they are both from Midi, both parentless, both young, and yet the circumstances could not be more different between them. At the café that first night, Enjolras learned about his time in Nîmes and his brief stint in Lyon. Little towns and villages between, also. But Feuilly speaks of Hungary like he’s lived there, of Austria as though he has visited, of Greece like some men speak of their families, and of France like his mother. 

That, Enjolras understands. 

Perhaps Feuilly has never left France. 

It would not be unreasonable: neither has Enjolras himself. What rhetoric and values Feuilly espouses do not require a personal connection, nor a sentimental history - but then, it must be personal. 

Feuilly is looking intently at him; Enjolras can feel it. He keeps his gaze fixed forward, just as before, picking out the Greek he recognizes in a crookedly-pinned leaflet. (Until recently, his Greek was far better than his Latin - the modern form, however, is hundreds of years removed from the works of Aristophanes and Socrates.)

If a country can be a mother, a continent can be a family.

The logic behind Feuilly’s fixation suddenly becomes clear.

At some point through wondering what other lives Feuilly has touched with his worldly dedication, Enjolras feels his ankles go numb, and he uncrosses his legs before he can think to stop himself.

The noise of sketching ceases, and so Enjolras tries to position himself as he was.

“No,” Feuilly says, “you’re all right to move. I have enough.”

“You do?”

“More than I thought. If you need to leave -”

“No,” Enjolras replies, and he turns on the chair to look at Feuilly directly. The movement makes him realise that he was sitting for longer than he thought; his shoulders feel tense as he shrugs and drops them.  “No, I can stay. I should like it.”

“My wrist aches, a little.” 

Feuilly tilts the page toward Enjolras for but a moment, and briefly he sees that Feuilly has drawn more than merely his facial profile. The style is artistic - not anatomical, like something Combeferre might attempt, but smooth, humane. 

“Have you the time, then? I hoped that we might talk, in fact.”

Enjolras trails off, but Feuilly stands from the bed. “About the society?”

Yes, and no, thinks Enjolras, because the society is only a thing of discussion, but Feuilly’s beliefs are…

“I wondered, Citizen, if you would share with me your knowledge of - as we said - Europe.”

Midway through making room at the desk for his pages, Feuilly nods. 

“Unless you’ve other obligations?”

Feuilly opens a drawer; he places the charcoal and papers inside of it, and says nothing. From behind, Enjolras can see the small shake of his head as he opens and closes a different drawer.

Enjolras says, “What you have learnt of Poland recently, also.”

When he turns around, Feuilly is holding a worn book in his hands, and beaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please click through to chapter 2 to view the beautiful illustration by pelides!


	2. Illustration (by pelides)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> illustration by AO3 user pelides, posted december 31, 2016


End file.
